


Half Past

by Phelidae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Goodbye Pre-Series 4 State of Mind, M/M, Melancholy, New Year's Eve, New Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 21:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9143491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phelidae/pseuds/Phelidae
Summary: There’s a burst of laughter from the kitchen that cuts him off, and the both of them wince as Mary’s laugh rises just above the rest and lasts just a little longer.John chews the inside of his cheek and stares through the bottom of his empty glass.Sherlock clears his throat and checks his watch.Ten minutes until midnight.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year. 
> 
> I've had an ugly past two years, but I wanted to post something before season 4 premieres. I also wanted to welcome the new year on a writing note. So, I threw this together. It has not been anything-ed. I own nothing.
> 
> You're all wonderful and I wish you all luck tomorrow evening. I will see you on the other side. 
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://phelidae.tumblr.com) and we can shout together.

Sherlock is standing by the window, violin tucked snug beneath his chin and the vibrations from it soothing the slight tremor that wants to curl his hand too tight. There’s a wet snow falling outside that keeps catching on the glass in front of his eyes where the warmth of 221B then melts it into streaming tracks. The shadows they cast flicker over the pale plains of Sherlock’s face as he stares out into the street below. 

There’s a surge of laughter from the kitchen, where everyone else seems to have gathered to pour more drinks and graze at the dwindling supply of snacks. Mrs. Hudson, John, Molly, Lestrade. Mary.

The glass doors to the kitchen have been pulled until just a crack is left open so that the music of Sherlock’s violin may flow between the rooms.

Sherlock is drawing the last note of a piece across the strings when he hears the low sound of wheels rumbling over their tracks and then a soft thud as the doors are pulled completely shut. He glances over his shoulder to see the golden-grey back of John’s head as he carefully releases the handles of the doors that divide the kitchen and the sitting room. When he turns around, Sherlock watches his face flicker from placid contentment to apologetic amusement.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” John says with an easy smile. He gestures briefly over his shoulder to the kitchen with a hand that is curled around a glass of amber liquid. “Got a bit crowded in there.”

John approaches and Sherlock sees that both of his hands hold identical drinks, so he gently sets his violin down onto its stand and accepts the second drink with a flicker of a smile. He takes a small sip and relishes the warmth that spreads through his chest, observing John over the rim of the glass. He's wearing a jumper in a deep red that Sherlock has not seen before. It fits him well, following the lines of his body in a flattering manner that none of his other jumpers even attempt to do. It bunches slightly at the hips, ending just at the pockets of John's dark jeans. 

It's a lovely outfit with an fashionable edge that is nothing like John would pick himself. Sherlock can envision Mary buying it for him and never being able to convince him to actually wear it, because John often dresses for comfort and this jumper hugs just ever so slightly at the softness near his middle in a way Sherlock adores and knows John hates. He can see Mary pulling it out of the closet just a few hours previously and coercing him into it with kisses and laughter, and John agreeing with that rueful half-smile that he has. 

John's nose crinkles as he pulls up beside Sherlock at the window and spots the snow, his shoulder brushing gently against Sherlock’s and drawing him from his thoughts. It's move of subtly that Sherlock has experienced John perform many times before, but still isn't certain whether it's John noticing Sherlock's mental retreat, and employing a conscious attempt to bring Sherlock back to the present, or a simple desire for physical closeness that occasionally intersects with Sherlock's deeper thinking. He isn't quite sure which he would rather it be. 

“Nasty stuff out there,” John says just before he takes a generous pull from his glass. He’s been sipping Scotch since the start of the evening and the edges of his words are soft with it, his eyes free of the tightness Sherlock can sometimes find there. 

Sherlock allows himself to drink in the sight of him a moment longer, makes a low sound of acknowledgment, and turns his gaze back to the window. 

“Mrs. Hudson is still trying to enlist me into the ‘Get Antlers on Sherlock’ effort.” John’s voice is warm with fondness and Sherlock feels his own mouth curve slightly in response. He doesn’t look away from the street as he responds.

“She has been dutifully recruiting people to that particular cause for a very long time.” He takes another drink and John gifts him with a quiet chuckle.

“Well, she’s got Lestrade and the camera on his mobile as very enthusiastic allies.” 

Sherlock gives his own huff of laughter at this and his eyes flick over to meet John’s. He grips his glass a little tighter and works to keep his expression relaxed.

“Have they sent you in as reconnaissance?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

John smirks and shakes his head. 

“Nah,” he runs his tongue over his lips and Sherlock almost hates him for it. “I told you, the kitchen is just too small for that many people. I was hoping to slip in here unnoticed and listen to you play, but well.” John shrugs. “That didn’t work out too well, I suppose.”

“I can certainly cease speaking and resume playing if you would prefer,” Sherlock says as his mouth curls into a smirk, and John dips his head with a grin.

“Not what I meant, no -- this is better.” He gestures back and forth in the small space between the two of them and looks up at Sherlock with one of those smiles that makes the navy of his eyes twinkle. “S’nice.” 

Sherlock forces himself to maintain eye contact as he becomes intensely aware of each noise that comes from the kitchen. 

“Thank you for the drink,” Sherlock says after an extended silence, tipping his glass to John. His voice catches on the ‘i’ in drink, and he quickly swallows a mouthful of Scotch with a grit of his teeth.

“Of course,” John says, clinking his glass to Sherlock’s and taking a more controlled sip. “I hadn't seen a drink in your hand yet tonight and needed to rectify that.”

Sherlock only smiles in response, reaching down to draw his fingers over the neck of his nearby violin in an absent gesture. The two of them slip into a welcoming silence, their shoulders staying close enough that they brush and press briefly with the occasional sway of their bodies. John looks content in his peripheral vision and Sherlock lets some of the tension in his own body ease away. He drains the rest of his drink and credits it with the warmth that is spreading through his chest. 

Sherlock allows his eyes to slip closed as he absorbs the air of the evening and pulls the elements of the moment into his mind and tucks them away. 

The sound of voices in the kitchen. The smell of Mrs. Hudson’s cooking. The feeling of John’s shoulder pressing into his bicep. 

It’s been a long time since Baker Street has felt so much like home. 

He is reminded of their first holiday season spent at Baker Street and marvels at the gap of years between then and now. The people are all the same and the flat is the same, but each have changed in their own ways. Molly’s attentions have changed. Mrs. Hudson’s recipes have been altered. John has solidified his unavailability. 

Before, it was poetry and dinner dates, now it's platinum and ultrasounds. 

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s eyes snap open and he looks over at John to find him already focused on Sherlock’s face. He blinks once.

“Look, Sherlock. Do you think --” 

There’s a burst of laughter from the kitchen that cuts him off, and the both of them wince as Mary’s laugh rises just above the rest and lasts just a little longer. 

John chews the inside of his cheek and stares through the bottom of his empty glass. 

Sherlock clears his throat and checks his watch.

Ten minutes until midnight.

“It’s nearly midnight,” Sherlock says when it becomes clear that John is in no rush to return to his previous train of thought.

“Yeah,” John agrees, glancing toward the kitchen. “Mary will probably come looking for me soon if I don't find her first.”

Sherlock nods and turns, picking up his violin and unnecessarily twisting the pegs in minuscule increments. 

"Best not to keep her waiting, then."

John remains beside him, a silent but heavy presence. 

When Sherlock goes to lift the violin to his chin, there is the light pressure of a hand on the curve of his shoulder that stops him dead, violin floating in front of his chest and eyes staring out at the snow. The hand grasps softly, pulls almost imperceptibly, and Sherlock allows his torso to twist as he looks back at John with eyes he hopes aren’t as wide as they feel.

John’s chin is tilted up in the soldierly way that he has, eyes hard. He steps forward and Sherlock looks past him the the kitchen door, sees the silhouettes mingling just beyond it and feels his heart trip over itself. John’s hand slips down from his shoulder to the curve of his rib cage and Sherlock’s grip on his violin’s neck turns worryingly tight.

“I’m sorry,” John says. His voice is low and rough and Sherlock can only shake his head wordlessly. He isn’t sure if he is expressing confusion or rejecting John’s apology, but both seem possible.

John’s mouth works around more words, but no sound escapes his lips before his teeth click shut in a small snarl of frustration. He glances back once over his shoulder before Sherlock feels the hand on his waist spasm, and then John is pressing even closer, second hand coming up to rest at the curve of Sherlock’s skull. 

John’s fingers slide into Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock’s eyes flicker shut briefly before opening again, lids caught halfway over his eyes. His stomach churns and adrenaline makes his hearing go a touch warbly. The hand holding his violin has dropped to his side, a dead weight. 

John’s mouth forms another apology before Sherlock can no longer see John’s mouth at all, and his field of vision simply becomes a John Watson smudge of warm colors. 

Their lips meet a touch off-center, but then John’s head tilt’s a fraction to the left and their mouths slot together in a shock of sensation. John’s lips are thin and dry and Sherlock’s entire face is beginning to feel numb with it. A second passes in which Sherlock cannot bring himself to move, to blink, to react. 

Then, he is lifting his free hand, fingertips grazing over stubble-rough skin at the edge of John’s jaw and John’s chest is pressing flush against his with the depth of his inhalation. He can feel the slick heat of John’s tongue flicker over his lower lip and he opens his mouth in response, tilts his chin down to push deeper, but then John is pulling away, his breath coming out in a sharp burst through his nose. 

Air surges between their mouths and John’s fingernails drag feather light over his scalp as he retracts his hand. Sherlock does not open his eyes and neither of them speak for a long moment. 

“Happy New Year, Sherlock,” John says after Sherlock has somewhat caught his breath. The sentence is quiet, almost a whisper at the end, and there are a million things Sherlock can feel him not saying. 

He can hear John swallow, can hear the drag of his glass as he picks it back up. 

Less than a minute later, there’s the sound of the kitchen doors rolling on their tracks, and with that Sherlock is turning back to the window. He lifts his violin the rest of the way to his neck and settles it there. 

“John, love, come on it’s nearly time.” Mary’s voice, warm and genuine. 

He feels John leave his side. Everyone is coming back into the sitting room to watch the long since muted countdown special on the television. 

“Here we go!” Mrs. Hudson, somehow still conscious at midnight and apparently taking it upon herself to lead the countdown. “Ten, nine, eight, seven…” 

Sherlock lifts his bow. He still has not opened his eyes. The rest of them join in with the countdown, a chorus of familiar voices. 

“Six, five, four, three…”

His bow meets the strings, silent. He licks his lips and tastes the Scotch. 

“Two…”

Sherlock breathes in. 

“One…”

He breathes out. 

“Happy New Year!”

He starts to play.


End file.
